


Puppeteer

by LadyLucs



Series: Puppet's Stories [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Assassin - Freeform, Child, Fanfic, Fluff, LadyLucs, Not completely S4 though, Other, Parent!lock, PuppetFanfic, Sherlock - Freeform, SherlockHolmes, SherlockS4, Sherlockfanfic, childassassin, puppet, s4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2018-12-23 22:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11999268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLucs/pseuds/LadyLucs
Summary: -The Sequel to LadyLucs' "Puppet"-Every villain has it's motive. Every protagonist has it's breaking point. Every character has a story.Even the ones that are long dead, come back to haunt us in the ways we can't always expect.-Partially follows the Season 4 plot line, so there are a few spoilers. However, I was not a fan of the final episode of the season, thus I will not be going off that, but rather a different plot line-





	1. The Timer Starts to Tick, But I don't realize it

**“The ship’s sailing.”**

**“No need for the metaphors.”**

**“You just** **_let_ ** **her go. I can’t…”**

**“I don’t control her, Kiara. I love her and want her to be happy. Even if that’s away from us.”**

**“She could die out there, with that Holmes. He’s a** **_psychopath.”_ **

**“High-functioning sociopath, and a self-decided one at that.”**

**“I won’t forgive you for this.”**

**“I know. And I’m okay with that.”**

**“...”**

**“Come here.”**

**“I love you, Dad.”**

 

The steam is never ending, a continuous whistle in my ears. The pipes drip, the floor is cold. My shackles move with every movement I make. I’m careful with my persona, balancing it in front of my own inner fear, as to not show who I am, why I am to fear. For to them, I am a child, a ten year old child. Nothing more than a brat who will cry because they want their mother. Not because they know their guardian is strapping a bomb to his chest and playing catch. 

 

The bobby pin rests heavily unnoticed against my skull. As the shouting picks up outside my cell door, I reach my shackled hands up and over my head, my fingers finding that bobby pin and slowly tugging it loose. The shackles hit the floor with a clank unheard by the men shouting outside the door. I go to open the door, only to find it locked. Sherlock was supposed to have opened it by now what the….

 

The door swings open, and I barely duck out of the way in time to avoid the steel crashing into my skull. A man stumbles in backwards, his arms flailing, his face bloodied so much he’s unrecognizable. Another man, this one scruffy and bulky, is reeling his fist back and laying punch after punch to the bloodied man. I suck in a breath, and slip out of the cell. 

 

I reel back, staring at the walls in horror. They’re streaked with blood, small and large hand prints alike. My hands shake as I slowly cover one of the smaller prints with my own. It’s still warm, and my hand comes away red. It doesn’t take long to find the hand’s owner, who stared at me with glassy eyes. I gag, steering myself clear of the massacre, and forcing myself down the hall. It’s the door at the end that I need to make it to, that I need to break into. It’s the door that holds the single most valuable thing of my life. I push it open with a grunt, ignoring the squish of red under my socked feet.

 

_ Creek…. _

I step into the room, my socked feet leaving bloody footprints behind me. This raid had gone completely wrong. There would be only two survivors. Both would be Holmes. 

 

“Eliza,” Sherlock says quietly.

 

“What happened?” I whisper, walking up to him, “They...they’re all  _ dead. _ ”

 

“I know,” Sherlock says softly. 

 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I say, “They...we were supposed to save them.” 

 

“Not everyone can be saved,” Sherlock says tiredly.  

 

=

=

=

 

The fire burns steadily. I watch the flames flicker in front of my eyes. 

 

_ “Move! Move! Daddy! Dad! ...It’s okay Ellie, it’s okay, we’re gonna get you out of here.” _

 

“Eliza?” 

 

I look away from the fire, to where Sherlock stands in his dress shirt and slacks. He’s flipping through a pile of papers, the ones we nearly died for. The one all those children died for. All former CAN children, beaten, tortured, and mentally destroyed. They had no chance of recovery as a soldier, but they could have gone  _ home _ . They could have been children again, they could have been people. They died as machines. Sherlock helped me bury them as people. 

 

“We’re heading to the Canadian Border in Maine next,” Sherlock says, “We’ve got to take down their leader. You can play the child act, I’ll come from behind and pull the trigger.” 

 

_ “Oh, you’ve got misery on the mind, huh sweetheart? You pathetic scrap!”  _

 

I didn’t recognize any of them. I think not being able to bury them with a name was the worst part. They were called random words their whole life, and then when they died, no one even knew their name. They died faceless and nameless, bloody and beaten. In the worst state a human being could be. They would be invisible to all of time, with only me and Sherlock Holmes knowing of their existence. Sometimes, I wonder if their parents looked for them, if they cried at night as they awaited to hear the fate of their lost and stolen children. Or if the foster homes even realized they were gone. I want to believe that someone is out there, still looking for them. Holding onto that is the hardest thing I’ve had to do since I killed Sebastian Moran. 

 

“Eliza?” 

 

“Sorry,” I say quietly, turning to face him, “What did you say?” 

 

Sherlock watches me with a deductive expression, worry falling across his face. He closed his file, the one we worked so...so hard for. He came towards me, and eventually sits on the ground next to me. I look to my lap, taking a shaky breathe. Sherlock sits awkwardly for a moment, before grabbing me by the shoulder and pulling me into a hug. 

 

“You didn’t have to,” I whisper, closing my eyes and holding back my tears. 

 

“I know,” Sherlock said quietly. He rests his chin on my head, and I bury my face into his shoulder. 

 

“...Can I call Mary?” I mumble, looking up at Sherlock. Sherlock sighs, and glances behind us. There isn’t anyone else in the Michigan woods with us. Paranoia is getting to him it would seem. 

 

“Take all your calls tonight,” Sherlock says finally, “We have to get moving to the next case tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you,” I say, taking his phone. He stands up again, taking the files with him. He stands a few yards away, so he can see me but not hear what I’m saying. I dial Mary’s number first. Throughout the last three years, I always went to her to talk about what I had done. The lives I took, the...nightmares. Everything. She has the same ones as me, the same screams and gunshots that keep her awake at night. The same smell of blood that never leaves her.  _ One...two….three... _ and she picks up. 

 

“Eliza,” Mary says, surprised but with a happy tone. I smile slightly.

 

“Hello, Mary,” I say, “How are my god cousins?”

 

“Being around Sherlock all the time is doing a number on your speaking patterns,” Mary chuckles.

“I hope that’s not a bad thing,” I mumble, drawing in the dirt with my finger absentmindedly. 

 

“You don’t call me first,” Mary says drily, “What’s on your mind?” 

 

“I keep seeing him,” I say quietly. I peek over, to where he stands by the tree,  _ smirking  _ at me. He gives a little finger wave, and I shiver. 

 

“Moran?” Mary asks. Moran mockingly gasps by the tree. 

 

“Yes,” I say, glaring at Moran, “I’m able to ignore him around Sherlock but he won’t leave me alone. He keeps waking me up at night, warping everything.”

 

“You know he’s not real,” Mary says soothingly, “That’s all that matters.”

 

_ “Oh yes, knowing I’m not real is oh so helpful. Get stabbed, Puppet.”  _

 

“Eliza,” I correct under my breath. 

 

“What?” Mary asks. 

 

“Sorry,” I say, sitting up. 

 

“Don’t talk to him,” Mary says harshly, “You give him power that way.”

 

“You make it sound like it’s a sitcom plot,” I mutter, glancing at Moran. I feel like a moose. 

 

“Well-  _ Martin sweetie, go ask your dad- no don’t touch that _ !” I can hear glass breaking on the line, shuffling and then Mary’s voice once again, “Sorry love, I gotta go. Martin is getting his hands on everything. He’s so curious it hurts.” 

 

I smile softly, “Yeah, okay. I gotta make more phone calls anyway. Love you, Mary.” 

 

“Love you too, sweetheart,” Mary says. I can hear the smile in her voice. 

 

_ “Oh she hung up on you,”  _ Moran laughs _ , “You’re a waste of time.”  _

 

I bite my tongue dialing the next number.  _ One...two...three… and voicemail.  _

 

“This is Doctor John Watson, sorry I couldn’t be available right now, I have business to take car-   _ Sherlock! Knock it off! _ Leave a message at the beep _.” _

 

“Hello John,” I say, “I just wanted to let you know that Sherlock and I are indeed alive. Tell Mel I miss her, and...give Martin a hug for me.” I glance back at Sherlock, “Sherlock misses you guys too. He’s just stubborn about making social calls. Love you, and...stay safe.” 

 

I hang up, and hold the phone for a short moment. Then, I dial again.  _ One... _ and he picks up. 

 

“Eliza? What is it?” Mycroft says shortly. 

 

“Social call,” I reply drily. 

 

I hear Mycroft sigh, and I can  _ feel  _ the eye roll, “Make it quick.” 

 

“We got the dog,” I say quietly, “Sherlock’s working on getting the location of the cat, but it may be awhile. The pets are out of control around here, but I don’t think we need animal control.” 

 

“Alright,” Mycroft says, “Now, hurry on-” 

 

“And I know I’m not the only one who misses you,” I interrupt, “Sherlock never mentions anyone, but I think that’s just because he doesn’t want to look weak.” 

 

“...Thank you,” Mycroft says quietly, “Is he alright?” 

 

_ “He’s doing better than you, shitface.” _

 

“Yeah,” I say, “He’s...better I think.” 

 

“Good,” Mycroft says. It’s a pause in our conversation, and I’m about to say goodbye when he speaks up again, “And you?”

 

“I’m fine,” I say simply, “I just want to go home.” 

 

“After this you should be able to,” Mycroft says, “I have the paperwork sealed and ready for delivery. When will you be done?” 

 

“I think by next week,” I say, “We’re close. We’ll have taken them down soon.” 

 

“Keep in mind that they are a terrorist organization, Eliza,” Mycroft reminds, “You must stay five steps ahead. Now, I must be going. I have a meeting to attend to.” 

 

“Alright,” I say hurriedly, “Love you, Mycroft.” 

 

He hangs up. 

 

_ “Do you think he cares about you?”  _ Moran laughs, “ _ You’re nothing but a stupid pawn!” _

 

I grit my teeth, and try to relax. I dial the last number.  _ One...two... _ and she picks up. 

 

“Hello?”

 

“It’s Eliza,” I say, smiling softly as I hear her gasp. 

 

“Oh, oh my! How are you doing? And how’s Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asks excitedly.

 

“We’re doing good,” I say, smiling into my words, “We got a raid done today. It was messy, but we did it, and neither of us got hurt either. I think we’re getting closer to coming home.” 

 

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Mrs.Hudson exclaims. I smile wider as she continues, “I’m working on repainting your room, you like pink still, right?” 

 

“Forever and always,” I say. 

 

Mrs. Hudson chuckles, “Well, I was planning on…” 

 

Her ramblings proceed, and I can’t help but smile the entire time she speaks. I can hear the love in her voice, and it makes my heart ache for home even more. 


	2. Roses Are Soft Till Stem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO! Fun news. I've been hiding because I wrote my own book! Yeah, an actual book of my writing that you guys can get signed and stuff. I'm not a fanfic author only anymore, folks! I'll tell ya'll when you'll be able to purchase a copy soon, but for now, go follow my Instagram to keep updated: @LadyLucs_ 
> 
> Also, sorry I haven't given ya'll these chapters. I'll be writing a few chapters of Puppet before I get to editing my WIP novel, so I hope you guys enjoy these upcoming chapters!
> 
> And remember, if ya'll ever are like, dying to get a new chapter, just shoot me a message. 
> 
> xox Faith

**“Mum! Mum! I want ice cream!”**

**“In a minute, love.”**

**“Mum, can Wes come over tomorrow?”**

**“Of course, John, can you take Rosie for a minute?”**

**“Yes, of course.”**

**“Thank you. Come on Martin, let’s go get ice cream. Mel, do you want to come?”**

**“No thanks,** **_Britain's Got Talent_ ** **is coming on in an hour!”**

**“Alright, see you three later.”**

**=**

**“Mum…? M-mum get up...Mummy please wake up…”**

 

I’m sitting in a field of flowers. Lots of flowers. Reds, blues, yellows, purples. Soft petals, four, five, more than six. Green stems and swaying leaves. All perfectly committed to memory, as I have been here before. I check my hands, making sure they aren’t the sparkly transparency that comes with intruding on my mind castle memories. I’m dreaming then. Slowly, I take to my feet. 

 

“Puppet, over here!” 

 

I turn around calmly, only to freeze up in horror. His face isn’t bloody as it was the last time I saw it, but his fluffy hair is ruffled and he’s got the clear bullet hole in his head. My hands shake as I back away. He tilts his head, a sad little pout taking over it, “Puppet? Don’t you remember me?” 

 

“I...I can’t forget,” I breathe, “I can’t forget anything, let alone  _ you _ .” 

 

Hamster smiles, and claps his hands together like he did in the CAN, excitement on his face, “Great!” The field begins to wilt around me as my breathing picks up. Hamster’s face grows sad, “Why is everything dying around you, Puppet?” 

 

“That’s n-not my name anymore,” I tell him. He starts taking a few steps towards me. My vision blurs. 

 

I’m standing in a field of flowers. Lots of flowers. Dead, wilted, gray, screaming. Crispy petals, four, five, more than six feet between us. Black stems and crumpling leaves. All perfectly destroyed by the darkness in my mind, as I have played this game before. I check my hands, making sure I’m not bleeding, that’s I’m not dying like everything within my mind, but they’re just wet and glossy. I’m crying then. Slowly, I keep walking backwards. Hamster keeps walking forwards. 

 

“Just because you change your name,” Hamster says, “Doesn’t mean you leave behind everything you’ve done. It’s an unrealistic escape.” 

 

“I can pretend,” I whisper, “I have to be strong. I have to protect my family.” 

 

“I thought I was family,” Hamster whimpers. He stops walking, “But you didn’t protect me. You hurt me on purpose.” 

 

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. 

 

“Eliza? Eliza, wake up.”

 

I open my eyes, breathing heavily. Sherlock makes me sit up, his eyes trained on me delicately, “Are you alright?” 

 

“I’m fine,” I croak. I swallow, and repeat myself, “I’m fine.” 

 

“You were crying.” 

 

I raise my hand to my face, and sure enough, it comes back wet and glossy. I rub my hands on my pants, “Sorry.” 

 

“Don’t apologize,” Sherlock says firmly. 

 

He isn’t going to ask. He never does. He knows not to. He’d rather let his curiosity die than make me tell him what drives me so far emotionally to have me cry unknowingly in my sleep. I know he’d ask me if John hadn’t told him not to. I lay down and roll back over, facing away from Sherlock. The grass brushes my nose, “Thank you for waking me.” 

 

An owl calls from somewhere in the forest; Sherlock doesn’t mind it. I sigh, “You can go back to sleep.” 

 

“I wasn’t asleep before,” He replies. I roll back over, sitting up to face him. 

 

“Why?” We’ve been working non-stop for the last week, all on this case. Always working, always fighting to get home. We finally have time to calm down and take break. But, Sherlock wants to keep working. I’m not going to stop him, or slow us down. We’ll keep working. 

 

“These files,” Sherlock gestures to where they are sitting next to him, “Hold nothing. They’re useless.” 

 

“What?” I say, sitting up fully, “What do you mean they’re useless?” 

 

“I mean they’re useless,” Sherlock says drily. 

 

_ “Hmmm reminds me of you! Useless and a complete waste of time!”  _ Moran laughs. I clench my fists at my side.  

 

Sherlock’s attention is on the files, “I believe they are fakes. The trade off will have the real ones.” 

 

“I should call Mycroft,” I say. Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket, and frowns, “It would seem he’s been calling us.” 

 

I look over to his phone, balking at the glowing words: 

 

_ Mycroft  _

_ 59 Missed Calls _

 

“Call him,” I demand, “And put it on speaker.”

 

_ Once-  _ “Sherlock, pack your things.” 

 

“What?” We both exclaim. I feel a trickle of fear roll down my back. 

 

“Your flight is in Savannah, Georgia, in three hours. Go.” 

 

And he hangs up. Sherlock grabs our shared duffle, and the files, and we both take off to the rented truck without another word. 

 

=

=

=

 

We land in London an hour later. My heart hasn’t slowed it’s frantic flutter the entire time. The private landing strip only holds one car and one man- Mycroft Holmes. He’s tapping his foot. I stay silent as Sherlock and I walk towards him. His shirt collar is rumpled, he’s got a white stain on the side of his mouth, toothpaste. His shoes are scuffed, and he’s leaning heavily on the car he road in. He’s been rushed, as if he was woken up in the middle of the night because he’s been told something so terrible that he had to bring his brother and a child assassin back from their punished sentence from the United States without good reason. A blunt and simple phone call. After calling fifty-nine times previously. He’s been  _ shocked.  _

 

“Mycroft!” I shout, taking the matter into my own hands, and letting my emotions get the better of me. I sprint towards him, grinning as his head jerks up. I jump him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He’s stiff and frozen, but relaxes after a moment. 

 

“Hello, Eliza,” He says drily. I let go as Sherlock comes hurrying over- perhaps his deduction has been more successful than my own.  Sherlock had a look of pure terror, his face ghostly pale as he muttered, “John.” He dashed for the car with wide eyes, understanding on his face. My heart drops and I look to Mycroft, who nods his confirmation. I climb in the car, and Mycroft follows after me. I sit between the Holmes brothers as the car drives away. 

 

“What happened?” Sherlock says as we drive. Mycroft shifts in his seat.

 

“Mary was shot,” Mycroft says bluntly, “She was hospitalized six hours ago.” More quietly, he mentions, “She’s stable.” 

 

“You didn’t find the shooter,” Sherlock confirms; Mycroft nods.

“But…she’s awake, right?” I blurt out, looking to Mycroft with panicked eyes. He looks away from me, a frown on his face, but nods nonetheless. I let out a breath, and place my hand firmly on my leg to cease its shaking. Mary is okay, everything will be fine.

“How’s John?” Sherlock asks. He doesn’t look at Mycroft; he just stares out the window, his thoughts remaining in his head. I wish I could read his mind.

_ “You’re not a trustworthy person, so he won’t tell you. Of course your evil mind would move to forcibly obtaining that information. You are a killer after all,”  _ Moran places a rough hand on my shoulder,  _ “It’s not like you trust him either.” _

I ignore him. My fingers start tapping against my leg again.  _ One, two, three, one, two, three… _

=

=

=

The hospital is stark white; the tiles are so polished that you can see not only the reflection of the light, but your face as well. It smells of clean, but not of lemon, losing the home feel, and retaining the surgical undertones of death. For a place meant to hold new life, or repair the old, it never feels as if life resides here. Rather, you can see death perched on every corner. But, instead of the death you see, I see Sebastian Moran. His bleach blond hair is short and military cut; his face is scratched more than my own- he has more than a scar on the cheek and one on the hair line. His entire left side of his face is burned, making it appear more pink than the rest of his Afghanistan tan face. He bares a long, diagonal scar through his eye on the same side, it appearing stark white against the pink of his skin. In my mind, he appears with a dark bullet hole in his head, but without the blood. However, scars don’t scare me, or I’d be far more scared of myself than of Moran. Moran’s smile, grim and murderously satisfactory, is what scares me. The hatred burning in his eyes as he sees me, as this..this  _ hallucination  _ sees me. It makes me wonder what I’ve managed to hide from myself internally.

_ “Bet she won’t make it,”  _ Moran whispers as I pass,  _ “I bet she’ll die in agony.” _

“Shut up,” I growl. Mycroft glances to me, his eyes narrowed.

“Who are you talking to?” He demands.

“You,” I say instantly. Scrambling, I say, “You’re thinking too loud.”

Sherlock snorts; Mycroft frowns heavily, but says nothing more. I frown at my feet, hating the guilt that rips through me. We make it to Mary’s hospital room without any further interruption.

“Sherlock,” John gasps as soon as the door opens. He grabs Sherlock and pulls him into a hug, “She’s…”

“I’m right here,” Mary says in amusement, from where she’s on the hospital bed, a tube of morphine flowing into her veins. “Still alive.”

I give John a tight smile, walking by stiffly as Moran mimics shooting John in the head, and grab Mary’s hand by her bedside, “What happened?” 

 

“I’m sure you can deduce it,” Mary says drily, “But you’re too polite.” 

 

“Mary,” John says a little harshly. Mary sighs dramatically. 

 

“I was two blocks from our house, walking back with Martin from the Baskin Robbins. He hadn’t been following us, I would have known that. He stepped out of a building, pulled a gun and shot me.”

 

“Too simple,” Sherlock snaps, “What happened?”

 

“That’s what happened, Sherlock,” Mary says, “I don’t know what more you want from me.” 

 

“You’re a trained assassin!” Sherlock says, “You couldn’t have just let him shoot you-” 

 

Sherlock continues to grow frustrated with Mary, but I study the side Mary was shot. If he came from a building, he would have hit her directly in the chest, or worse, the head. But, he shot her in the gut. So, either Mary is lying or…

 

Or she protected Martin with her own body. 

 

“But she did,” I say, looking to Sherlock, “Because he was aiming for Martin.” 

 

Sherlock falls silent mid rant. He picks up my deduction faster than I came up with it, “You’re right.” 

 

Mary nudges me with her elbow, smiling, “Told you you’d deduce it.” 

 

“So why was a gunman going for Martin?” John growls, “He’s barely even four!” 

 

“Where is Martin?” I ask, heading towards the door. 

 

“Out in the waiting room,” John replies stiffly. I nod, and leave the room, closing the door gently behind me. I pause outside, moving my Kris from my boot to it’s brace. I slip my backpack off my back, and pull out my bullet proof vest- it still had two holes from when Mycroft shot me, and the one from when I protected Melody. I pull my hoodie on over it, and pull my bag back over my shoulder.

 

The waiting room is pale blues and sterile pinks. It smells of cleaner, but none of that matters when I see who’s in the waiting room. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Wes, Melody, and Martin all sit on the chairs, but there’s also another person. A rather small person, in fact. She has soft golden hair, and chubby little hands, and she’s laying on her belly on the floor. She looks at me as I reveal myself, her baby blue eyes staring me down. She makes a baby noise in her throat. 

 

“Who’s she?” I ask. Melody’s head jerks up immediately, her eyes widen and she cries out. 

 

“ _ Eliza!”  _

 

I shriek as I’m tackled to the floor by a flurry of ginger. Melody sobs into my shoulder, “You’re  _ home. _ ” 

 

“Yeah,” I croak, “I am but you’re gonna strangle me.” 

 

Melody releases me and stands, helping me up with ease. 

 

_ “She’s so nice. I can only imagine how she’d feel in the Cage.”  _

 

I throw a dark look at Moran, who studies his nails with a thin smirk on his face. 

 

“Sad to see you come home for this,” Molly says softly. I nod, a grim look falling over my face. Mrs. Hudson laughs lightly, almost scoffing, nodding in agreement. 

 

“..At least I’ll be able to see my room?” I try. Mrs. Hudson beams. 

 

“Oh! I hope you do like it dear, it’s painted and cleaned,” She rambles, “I moved some things around, I hope you don’t mind. That story you’ve been writing is very good, by the way dear. A little dark, but very good!” 

 

I laugh nervously, “Yeah, thanks. So uh, who’s the baby?” 

 

“That’s Rosie,” Martin says quietly. He’s curled up into one of the chairs, his eyes dark and sunken, his face tear stained and blank, “She’s my baby sister.”  He speaks with such hollowness and blankness that I’ve only seen in the most destroyed soldiers. I suppose Martin lost his childness just as I’ve lost my own when I was his age, just a few years ago. I look to the baby on the floor, and crouch down in front of her. 

 

“Hello, Rosie,” I say softly, “I’m Eliza.” More quietly, barely audible, I whisper, “I will protect you, too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**“Please let me out…  I’m all alone...please, I didn’t mean to hurt him. Please..please understand. I didn’t want to hurt him. He made me. Please...”**

**=**

**=**

**=**

**“Hello, Hello!”**

**“...”**

**“Ah...you must be waiting for Sherlock, hm Puppet?”**

**“..It’s Eliza.”**

**“I'm your uncle. Sherlock sent me.”**

**“He didn't tell me.”**

**“Well come on, we must be going.”**

**“I only have one uncle and his name is-.”**

**“** **_Come, we must be going_ ** **.”**

**“Don't touch me!”**

**“Shut up, you stupid child.”**

**“Sherlock!** **_Sherlock!”_ **

  
  
  


  “ _ They don't care about you, you know,”  _ Moran hums, “ _ I mean, you can do what? Use a knife? Oh ho ho! Look at me I'm the little assassin! Oooooh!”  _ Moran flails his arm around mockingly. I close my eyes for a moment and gently breathe out through my nose. My breath fogs up the window, and I gently run my finger through the fog, writing my name. 

 

   “ _ Since when has that been your name? You think just because I'm dead that you're not Puppet anymore? You're still Puppet. You can't undo the damage you've done. Suck it up, you damn bitch.” _

 

   I punch the glass, cracking it. I breathe harshly though my mouth, clenching my teeth hard enough that my jaw starts to throb. 

 

_ “Hit a nerve have I?”  _ Moran snickers, “ _ Poor baby.” _

 

_ Don't talk to him,  _ I tell myself. I stare at the spider web formation of cracks that had spread from the point I had impacted on my bedroom window. I flex my hand, rubbing at my bruised knuckles. I have to control myself. I can't let him get to me. I turn away from the window, and study the room that looks so different from how it did three years ago. 

 

   Mrs. Hudson truly put her heart into making it, that I can tell. The walls are a soft red, while the new bedding is a pastel pink (I can't help but smile when I realize she remembered my favorite color. The paint must have been done the day after I left, three years ago, so when she asked me the other day, she was merely checking to see it hadn't changed.).  The bed is this pretty white metal, with all sorts of twist and turns, with a matching wooden white nightstand and wardrobe. Most of my stuffed animals are still here, all aside from William, who I had lost along with my Hello Kitty backpack while I was in the states. The new animal on my bed is a stuffed rabbit- he is a soft cocoa brown with a pink little velvet nose. 

 

    I pick him up, and hold him close. He's not the same as William, but I can tell Mrs. Hudson took the time to pick him out. I suppose he will be as close as I can get to William then. I force myself not to look at Moran as he picks up one of my many teletubbies from the basket in the corner, and turns it in his scarred hands. 

 

   “ _ I found your love for these to be disgusting. Look at this thing! It is nothing, unlike you. You are a monster, while it is a child's toy,”  _ Moran hums, “ _ I bet I could put a bomb in here.”  _

 

 I put the brown bunny- MH - back on my bed, and push past Moran. I hear him come down the stairs after me, and force myself to ignore it, “Sherlock?” 

 

  “Kitchen,” Is his reply. I go through Moran when he tries to block me- he dissipates like a ghost when hit with iron or salt. Sherlock is standing on the table, dismantling one of what I assume is Mycroft’s cameras. I climb under the table and sit down.

 

   “What do you need?” Sherlock asks. I hear a clank and jump slightly, watching as a screw rolls its way under the table. I pick it up and hold it in my hands, fingers tracing over the groves. 

 

  “Eliza?” He says, falling still. I twirl the screw between my fingers.

 

   “Why do you call me that now? And don't say it's my name,” I say quietly, “Because we both know it's not.” 

 

  “It  _ is _ your name,” Sherlock says simply, “Puppet isn't your name, Eliza.” 

 

   I close my hand around the screw, pressing it into the skin of my palm, “I don't get the...the importance of my name.” 

 

   “It's who you really are,” Sherlock says. He shifts on the table above me. I stare at the screw in my hands, looking at the indent it's made in my palm. 

 

  “ _ Who you really are?”  _ Moran laughs, “ _ We all know what you really are.”  _

 

  “What am I then?” I ask bitterly, “My name is Greek, but that doesn't make  _ me _ Greek.” 

 

  “I don't know,” Sherlock says honestly, “That's just what John said.” 

 

   A chunk of metal hits the floor this time. I wince, and place the screw back on the ground, “I think I like Puppet better.” 

 

  “Why?” Sherlock replies. 

 

  “I know what it means to be Puppet,” I say. I hear his movement stop for a pause, then start up again. 

 

  “I don't think you're Puppet anymore,” Sherlock says slowly, “But you're right, you're not Eliza either.” 

 

   I frown, “Then who am I?” 

 

   “Try Charlotte,” Sherlock says calmly, “Your middle name.” 

 

   “Like you did?” I ask, “You used to be William once.” 

 

   “Yes,” Sherlock says quietly, “Like I did.” 

 

   “Can I ask why you aren't William anymore?” I ask. 

 

  “You just did,” Sherlock says drily, “But the answer is no.” 

 

   “Okay,” I say quietly. The table creaks above me, and with a thump, Sherlock is standing beside the table rather than on it. 

   “Charlotte?” Sherlock tries. It doesn't feel right either. 

 

   “ _ Of course it doesn't feel right- it's a lie like you,”  _ Moran’s sitting next to me, leaning close to my head to whisper in my ear, “ _ You are nothing but a murderer.”  _

 

  “Eliza?” Sherlock tries again. 

 

I jerk my head up, and crawl out from under the table quickly, “Sorry. Was caught up with M...my thoughts.” 

 

_ “Nice save.”  _

 

   I ignore him. Sherlock frowns at me, but I ignore that too, “Do we have a case?” 

 

  “I do, yes,” Sherlock says, a smirk twitching on his lips, “You have school.” 

 

  “School?” I blurt out, “How do I have school? We’ve been back for two days, Sherlock!” 

 

   Sherlock sours, “Mycroft found out how many days of public school you'd been missing, and doesn't think putting a ten year old into first year is appropriate. He's going to tutor you.” 

 

   I huff, “But I want to go to the crime scene with you!” 

 

   “I'll have to take John instead,” Sherlock says, “Mycroft's car has been outside for the last twenty minutes.” 

 

   “Get me my coat,” I huff, “I need my brace and vest.” 

 

   “Everything is on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson was ordered to get your stuff out,” Sherlock grunts, “Mycroft.”

 

  “He's a git,” I mumble, securing my Kris brace and bulletproof vest before pulling on my coat. 

 

=

 

=

 

=

 

    “Hello, Eliza,” Mycroft says. He's sitting in his office chair, his hands intercrossed on his desk. The piano is still there, and I remember him showing me how to draw on the floor a little over four years ago. His office offers me a strange sort of comfort that I take pleasure in as I sit down on the floor. 

 

   “We have chairs for a reason,” He says with a raise of his brow, “Sit.” 

 

    “I like the floor,” I reply. Besides, if I'm on the floor, I can't see Moran faking to run a noose over Mycroft’s head. 

 

   Mycroft sighs, and I hear his chair squeak as he stands. He comes to sit down on the floor in front of me. He has several papers in his hands, “We’re going to go over the works of Charles Dickens.” 

 

   “I can barely read Cat In The Hat,” I say drily. Mycroft frowns sharply.

 

   “You must be able to read higher than that,” He says. Moran snickers behind him. 

 

   “I can only read what I was taught to,” I say, “I wasn't taught a lot.” 

 

   Mycroft frowns further, which I didn't think was possible, “You're ten years old. Almost eleven.” 

 

   “I didn't go to school for three years,” I say simply, “Sherlock didn't have a lot of time to teach me anything but how to defuse a bomb while we were in the states.” 

 

   “You can defuse a bomb, but not read a book more than  _ Cat In The Hat _ ?” Mycroft says, “Perhaps I should get you a private tutor.” 

   “Not many teachers would be comfortable teaching me, Mycroft,” I say quietly. Moran looks interested now, stopping his taunts and looking at me with his dark green eyes, “I'm dangerous, and…” 

 

_ “Disfigured,”  _ Moran whispers, a crooked smile on his face, “ _ You're welcome.”  _

 

  “And?” Mycroft prompts. 

 

   “Scarred,” I finish, “My teacher from the public school was terrified of me because of them.” 

 

  Mycroft frowns, “Your scars are not a problem.” 

 

   “I know,” I say quietly, “People are.” People who stare, who grimace, who ask where I got them, if I was being hurt at home. The ones who accuse Sherlock of doing it, ask if he's the one who's left the cigarette scars on my hands, or what kind of dog went after me. The ones who asked how I got the skin discoloration, what kind of burns caused the ones on my neck and arms. Those people. The ones who didn't care about me, but the story I had to tell. 

 

   “You are better than  _ people _ ,” Mycroft says coldly, “You understand that, do you not?” 

 

_ “Oooooh! The old ‘you're better than them’ speech! Hahahaha!”  _ Moran cackles, falling forwards and clutching his stomach. I try not to let him get to me. But he's right. He's...right….I fake a smile at Mycroft. 

 

   “You wanted to teach me to read?” I remind Mycroft. He seems satisfied with my response, and begins his lesson. Moran mimics strangling him the entire time. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's been a little while. Heh. More like months. 
> 
> I finished my first novel, and it'll be coming out in May this year. I am working on the sequel, however it becomes hard to focus on at times. When this happens, I'll write more to this. 
> 
> Or, you know, when you guys ask for more. I'm usually pretty responsive, I swear. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you guys for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I appreciate the time you took to read this.
> 
> Instagram & Twitter: @LadyLucs_   
> Tumblr: @LadyLucs  
> Website: ladylucs.com  
> TAJ (Teen Author's Journal): @LadyLucs  
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> Old Wattpad Account: Fanfics4Turtles


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